


The Better Man

by Roo_Bastmoon



Category: The Patriot (2000)
Genre: Angst, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:36:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo_Bastmoon/pseuds/Roo_Bastmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben plans on killing Tavington, but ends up saving his life instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Tavington's Territory.

The August sun beat down on William Tavington. It made his itchy uniform all the more unbearable. His already disturbingly high fever escalated. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. Sweat stained his undershirt, his back. He could never remember being this hot.

To the outward glance, Tavington would seem perfectly composed. As always. But inwardly, he reeled. All his energy focused on keeping his seat while his steed pushed onward.

His scouting mission for Gabriel Martin had resulted in a bittersweet surprise of passion and delight. But it also got him lost deep in the Carolina wilderness. Lost, alone. Vulnerable to the memories of desperate whispers, fragile eyes, soft blond hair. Alone. And sick. 

Getting worse by the minute. 

Unforgivably weak. 

He slouched over the horse’s neck, a muted groan escaping him. He rode like that for quite some time, not even bothering to look at the trail. They’d been going in circles for days anyway. 

Eventually the horse led him to water. The irony was not lost on him. He slid out of the saddle and kneeled beside a bubbling brook. The water was cool, a momentary respite. 

He sipped from his hands like the commonest of creatures. He hated to admit it, but his father had been right; he really was no better than a guttersnipe. And the way things were going, he’d probably die in a gutter as well. In a dirty little colonial gutter.

Cupping two handfuls of the fresh water, he splashed his face several times. The skin on his forehead felt raw with heat. 

“Hello, Colonel,” said a familiar voice. The press of a sharp bayonet poked into Tavington’s back. “Come to my stream to wash your sins away?”

He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Well if this isn’t just bloody grand.”

“Oh, I’m real pleased about it, too,” Martin growled, resting the blade expertly over Tavington’s heart.

The helplessness of his situation just compounded. He positively seethed. “I suppose it’s true, if you wait long enough, everything comes to you.” Tavington raised his hands above his head. “Honestly, if I’d known all I’d have to do to find the Martin family was wander around these miserable woods, it would have saved me so much time and effort.”

The man behind him didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Tavington began to sweat, and this time it had nothing to do with the sun. 

“Gabriel told me you took him prisoner near here. Told me you let him go… Now that made me very curious. I just had to ride out and ask you myself; why would you do that, Colonel?”

Tavington turned slightly, his hands still in the air. “To find you--”

The rifle clicked, suddenly armed, the bayonet now jabbing into his torso insistently. “Don’t mistake me for a fool, Colonel. We are both soldiers, both men of the field. You could easily have followed him. You didn’t. So why?”

Turning, Tavington faced Martin fully, taking in the fierce jaw, the sharp blue eyes. So sage, weary, so very unlike Gabriel’s innocent gaze. But just as fragile. 

“Your son is a very… unique… young man.” Tavington shrugged. “I could not bring myself to kill him.”

Martin’s nostrils flared, his eyes flashing from fire to ice. “But you could bring yourself to kill my Thomas? My fifteen year old boy!”

Tavington sucked in his breath as the bayonet gashed his chest. A little river of blood trickled forth. 

There was no way out of this. Martin had him without a weapon, in the middle of nowhere. 

Tavington was used to grappling for survival. He had his father to thank for that. For many, many years, Tavington had held onto his life and his position by the fingernails. Doing whatever was necessary. Being ruthless about it. In fact, he preferred it that way. 

But something in him had changed since he entered the woods. Since that fragile American boy.

“For what it’s worth, Martin. I’m sorry.” Tavington closed his eyes, hoping something like sincerity showed in his expression.

Long seconds ticked by. A light breeze rustled through the treetops, shimmering the forest with light and shadows. When Tavington opened his eyes again, Martin’s head was cocked to the side; those blue eyes were staring at him. His gaze bore into Tavington, drilled into him. He felt almost violated. 

Martin pushed the bayonet in another millimeter. “Sorry isn’t good enough.”

“I know,” he swiftly replied. Sweat dotted his forehead again, pricked the back of his neck. The rebel leader kept coming in and out of focus. Things went from disturbingly dark to far too bright. 

Unbidden images flashed before him. Young Thomas, dying in Martin’s arms. Gabriel writhing in Tavington’s arms. Tavington, a small lad, squirming away from his father’s frightening blows. Whores. Staining red drink. Redcoats marching in straight lines. 

A sea of sins he bore and visited on others now bled out in front of his vision. And here stood this angel of justice, this ghost. Come to haunt and hound Tavington to his death. 

Of course sorry wouldn’t be good enough. 

“I know,” he repeated, going limp. Falling, tumbling into blessed unconsciousness.

~*~

Ben Martin crouched at the mouth of a small cave. He used to come here as a child; it was his secret spot. It would be a good enough shelter for now, private, out of sight should any redcoats pass by.

He had his rifle and his trusty tomahawk. Plus his dagger and bayonet. And a small pistol tucked securely in his pants, another in his traveling sack.   
He still didn’t feel safe. Not with that man. 

Farther back in the cave, the British officer thrashed in his sleep. Loose strands of charcoal black hair clung to his forehead, his flushed cheeks. A light sheen of sweat brushed over his brow, his upper lip. Glistening. 

Even in sickness the man looked dashing. Everything about him was gorgeous, wicked, and sinful. 

Unfair.

Martin had removed the red and green dragoon jacket, tucking it away for a time when it would surely prove useful. Another ambush perhaps. Another prisoner exchange. He could certainly try to ransom Tavington to Cornwallis; there would be a sick sort of satisfaction in learning his price. 

He had also pocketed Tavington’s pistol and dagger, but left his sword by the man’s tethered horse and tack. Martin had been a soldier long enough to know what a sword meant to an officer. 

But why should he honor the rules of war with this disgusting creature? Why show the slightest respect to the murdering scum of the earth? Martin told himself it was because he didn’t want to sink to Tavington’s depths. Didn’t want to welcome the familiar, unbridled, battle rage. 

He assured himself that it had nothing to do with the way the man’s eyes looked like they might break into pieces at the mention of Gabriel. Or of Thomas. It had nothing to do with the feverish apologies he kept uttering in his sleep. Certainly nothing remotely related to his handsome face, that somber, noble brow creasing under the assault of nightmares. His thick, unruly hair. His scent.

Ben shook his head, dashing such thoughts. 

This was business. Simple, pure.

He would question Tavington about Cornwallis’ movements. Torture him just enough to satisfy his guilt about Thomas. He would be slow, methodical and exacting about it. And then he would kill the son of a bitch. 

“Gabriel,” Tavington breathed, his voice hitching with need, laced with an intimacy that Ben did not like. 

He had his own suspicions about what happened between Tavington and his oldest child. He did not want to entertain those thoughts for very long. Gabriel was unharmed, back in his care, safe. Anything else Ben chalked up as secondary and pointless. Gabriel wouldn’t speak of what had happened in the woods, and Ben didn’t feel he had the right to ask. Soon his son would marry Anne, and the past would hold no sway. 

Tavington jerked more frequently now, his cries becoming louder and more desperate. It annoyed Martin. Made him feel twitchy.

“No point in you raising the dead with that howling,” Martin grumbled, soaking a rag with his canteen water. No knowing what else shared this cave, what those cries might awaken.

He neared the colonel, bending over him slowly, as one might approach a wounded animal. The man had fainted and been unconscious for over three hours since sundown, but Ben still didn’t trust him. 

Carefully, he tapped Tavington’s forehead with the cool cloth. Such action came easily, familiar to a father of seven children. The frown etched in Tavington’s brow eased a bit. He drizzled some water across the man’s neck and chest, then rubbed away some of the mud and grime. Noted the firm muscles there, rising and falling with labored breath. 

Tavington was very ill. Sick enough to die, if Ben left him out here. 

Too weak to fight, too weak to run. Totally at his mercy.

Ben found himself paralyzed before a kind of crossroads. A decision had to be made. One path led to revenge. Avenging Thomas’s death. Avenging the burned crops and homes up and down the east coast. Protecting Gabriel, and indeed his whole family. Probably the rest of the colonies. This was war. Colonel Tavington deserved to die.

But on the other side, Tavington had a wealth of information. Secrets that could help his men stay alive, further their cause, maybe even help win key battles. Besides, there was no honor in killing a completely defenseless man. His wife would have been ashamed of such barbarous thoughts. His wife would be ashamed to see the man he had become. Again.

Benjamin Martin wanted, with all his heart, to be a civilized man.

Since the day the fighting had come to his farm, the gentleman and the berserker in him had been at constant odds. Now, with Tavington in his grasp, Ben’s sanity walked the edge of a knife. 

He made a decision. Tavington would live, for now. Gain back his strength enough to talk, to fight a fair duel. Ben would see him on his feet and then cut him down and send him to hell. The sooner, the better. Ben sensed instinctively that Tavington’s power rested in some unforeseen force, in the ability to get under the skin and break things apart from the inside out. He was poison. Venomous.

Yet how could such a snake be so beautiful? He brushed Tavington’s silky hair back, continued blotting at the fever. The man moaned, a throaty, purely masculine sound that went straight to Benjamin’s groin.

“Damn you,” he whispered into the thick air.

It was going to be a long night. 

~*~

Tavington woke to find himself laid out in a hollow little enclave, barely high enough for a grown man to stand tall. 

He lifted his head gingerly, his eyes stinging from the bright sunlight. A figure crouched near him, streams of sunshine outlining his form. Martin was radiating light. Like an angel.

“I think I’ve sinned one time too many, Colonel. But thanks all the same.”

Tavington had murmured that last bit out loud without realizing it. A dangerous thing, that. He would have been embarrassed, had he not been so surprised to find himself still alive.

“You have plans for me, I take it?” he asked, not liking the crackle in his own voice.

The man did not look up. “I do.”

His head throbbed. An agonizing, splintering, aching sort of throb. 

What could Martin be playing at? Torture? Interrogation? Ransom? The thought of Cornwallis’ expression when he received the news that Tavington had been taken prisoner… and by the very Ghost he was supposed to capture…

He laughed but it came out as a cough, his whole body wracked and taut. 

“You’re very sick,” Martin said matter-of-factly.

Insolent peasant. “How astute.”

Martin fiddled with a cluster of weeds and berries, grinding them down with his teeth and then spitting them into what Tavington could only assume was some kind of tea brew.

“Is this what passes for breakfast in the colonies?” Tavington moved slightly and Martin’s eyes clapped on him. 

“No.” The avenging angel marched over to Tavington brusquely. A steaming tin cup appeared under Tavington’s nose. It reeked to high holy hell. “It’s what passes for medicine.”

Tavington grimaced, the pungent odor making him gag. “Martin,” he began, had to clear his throat, and tried again. “Martin, I can well understand the desire to kill me, but does it have to be like this?”

“Drink it. It will help with the fever.”

Tavington took in the serious line of Martin’s lips, the careful, shuttered expression. 

He pushed the cup away. “Too considerate of you. I think I’ll pass, all the same.”

Martin snatched a handful of his hair and wrenched his head back, making Tavington’s vision swim with bright bursts of pain. 

“You’ll drink it. Either I’ll pour it down your gullet, or you’ll take nice gentlemanly sips with your little finger curled up. But you’ll drink it, Tavington.”

If Martin had wanted to kill him, he probably would have done it by now, and in a much more dramatic fashion. Apparently the colonial had something greater in store. Biting back a scathing insult, Tavington smiled weakly. “Much obliged.”

Martin thrust the cup into his open hand and watched like a hawk as Tavington tested the drink. “Sweet Christ, Martin! What the hell have you given me?”

“You probably don’t want to know. But it will stop the fever. Keep going.”

Tavington glanced back and forth from the odious liquid to the equally dour expression on Martin’s face. “Somehow I think the cure is worse than the illness.”

“I’ll say,” Martin agreed, sporting a schoolboy smirk. “Of course, I could always end your misery with a bullet to your head.” A small firearm twirled effortlessly around Martin’s long, calloused forefinger. “Just say the word.”

“Frankly, I think I’ll give the poison a go. Cheers.”

He braced himself. Tavington had the sneaking suspicion that Martin enjoyed watching him take this awful stuff. Probably put unnecessarily horrible ingredients in it just to watch him wince. Well, Tavington couldn’t abide showing weakness, so he stared Martin directly in the eye and downed the whole, horrific concoction. 

It burned like acid.

A full-fledged grin split Martin’s face. 

“Enjoying my suffering?” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Martin said, cocking his head to the side. He looked so young when he did that. Reminded him of Gabriel. 

“I believe I do,” Tavington whispered into the cup. If Martin heard him, he didn’t let it show. “So what now?”

“Now we wait. You rest. When you’re well, we’ll have a duel--”

“A duel?” Tavington cried incredulously. “You must be joking, Martin. You can’t be serious.” 

Martin just stared at him; determined, grave. He knew that resolved expression. Damn him.

“You are bloody serious.” Tavington gaped. “Martin… This is, of course, insane of me for asking, but… If you already have me at your mercy, why bother fixing me only to have a duel?”

Martin’s eyes glittered, his voice low and deceptively even. “I don’t want you at my mercy. I don’t want mercy to enter into it at all. We wait until you are well. Two days should be enough, with the help of the medicine. Then we finish it.”

Is this what passed for honor in this godforsaken country? Christ, he was among absolute heathens. He needed some air, made to get up.

“Lie down,” Martin commanded.

“I’m not going to try anything, I just want to--”

The pistol cocked. “Lie down.”

“…take a piss…” Tavington flattened himself, his heart lurching at the fierce twist of Martin’s face. He watched the pistol aim in slow motion and fire.

Scuffling behind him. A slight thump. Mere inches away a small wildcat spread on the cave’s floor. Shot dead, square between the eyes. Tavington blinked.  
“Good eye.”

Martin nodded, approaching the kill. “Looks like you get to eat tonight as well.”

“Charming.” Tavington smiled sweetly. A feral, acerbic flash of teeth. Gabriel would have called it ugly.

Martin shook his head, picking the wildcat up by its hind legs. “Are you always such a smarmy little bastard?”

Tavington feigned wounded pride. “Being a smarmy bastard is something of an art form, you know.” He took immense pleasure in annoying the colonial. Probably foolish to tempt fate, but his situation really couldn’t get any more perilous. 

Perhaps his headache made him more bold than wise. 

“So, Colonel. I’m curious. What were you doing in my woods? After you let Gabriel go, I mean. Lost?”

Martin was driving at something. “I was enjoying the lovely foliage of the season. My horse and I do so love the turn of a pretty leaf.”

“Perhaps you were scouting for my camp, while on this nature expedition?”

Tavington smirked. “If I wanted to find you, I could have followed Gabriel. As you said so yourself, I obviously didn’t.”

“Yes, very perplexing. Why did you say you let him go?”

“I didn’t say.” He sighed. “If you must know, Martin, your son made something of an impression on me. Perhaps I let him go because the fever took hold of me, addled my brains. Who knows?” 

“Don’t you?”

The urge to kick Martin in the teeth got stronger with every passing moment. Unfortunately, his adrenaline rush was fading with the knowledge that his life suffered no immediate threat.

“So,” Martin prompted. “If you weren’t tracking me or my son, and I think we can assume you’re not a deserter… That must mean you were headed back to camp.”

Tavington nodded, weary, raw. He wanted Martin to shut up for a second.

“And where is camp?”

“Where I was heading.”

The colonial grunted. “Don’t be simple. Where is your camp stationed?”

“We pitch our tents on the hard earth, Martin, same as your men, I expect.”

Martin made a frustrated, chortled sound. “Damn you, tell me!”

“I’d sooner swallow my own tongue.”

Tavington watched his captor pace with pent up energy. “That can be arranged. Tell me where your men are. Are they in my woods?”

“Your woods?”

“This land is mine.”

“The land is the King’s--”

“Mine.”

Tavington lowered his voice as if explaining something obvious to a simpleton. “Martin. His Majesty’s army is large enough to fill all your woods. Pretty soon, they will. When they find you, they’ll cut through your miserable little band of idiots and then there will be no dispute about the King’s land--”

Martin snapped. A dagger gleamed in the morning sun. “The King doesn’t work my lands, Tavington. I do. My family settled on them. My family fought for them. My hands break the soil. It’s my land. If they come, they’ll regret it.” Martin’s eyes blazed with fury. “Are you sure you really want to talk politics right now?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Tavington agreed, eyeing the knife.

“Go lay down over there,” Martin commanded tersely. “You’ll just be in my way.”

Tavington was so weak he could barely crawl, let alone stand. 

“Move.”

He limped his way over to the other side of the cave, amazed that Martin never thought to bind his hands. Well, feeling as poorly as he did, it wasn’t really necessary. But the man’s confidence in that fact annoyed him. 

“What are you going to do?”

“Make dinner.” Martin stalked back to the mouth of the cave to stoke a fire. 

Tavington closed his eyes, trying to lessen the nausea that bubbled up inside him. “You would truly eat that… What is that?”

“Lynx.”

“Fine then. You don’t even know where it’s been.” 

Martin sliced through the fur and flesh with skill, clearly having done this many times before. “Do you complain endlessly? Or is this just how you make conversation?”

Tavington hissed, about to lose the reins on his temper. “I suppose you’ll have to excuse me. I’m not exactly at my best.”

“And how is that hard head feeling?”

Tavington remembered the brew. His fever did seem to be letting up, but he was still weak and shaky. Blood pounded, pounded. “Tolerable, I suppose.”

“Well, you should be passing out any time now.”

Tavington took a deep, steadying breath. Losing his patience would gain him nothing. “Did you just say I should be passing out any time now?”

“Yep.” Martin smiled at him and continued skinning the lynx.

“I hardly think the sight of gutting an animal would be enough to make me pass out, Martin.”

The colonial fixed him with a savage stare. “I hardly expected it would, Butcher. I meant, from the drink.”

“The drink?”

“Yep.”

Rushing wind roared in his ears. Like a ship tossed on stormy seas, he rocked from side to side. Nothing to cling to... “Wha--”

Tavington felt his head fall back and the rest faded into a murky haze. 

~*~

Insipid, snide little snake. 

That Indian medicine would keep Tavington under for the rest of the morning, maybe longer if the man hadn’t eaten in a day or two. It bought Martin some peace and quiet, some time to plan things out. 

Gabriel and his men were disbanded at the moment, off to tend to their families briefly before the next engagement. He had a few days, and though he would rather be with Charlotte and the children at the beach camp, this debt of honor must be settled first. 

The impulse to simply kill the man spiked through him every few minutes. Tavington had burned his home, killed one of his children. Quite possibly raped his eldest son. If the two had met upon the road, he could have simply struck the man down and been done with it. Get on to mourning Thomas, see Gabriel properly married, and finish this war. 

But Tavington had come to him sickly. Helpless. Needy. 

And Benjamin Martin had a weakness for helpless things.

Tavington rested quietly now, his features passive, relaxed. The man was covered in mud; his tangled hair fell wildly about his face. Ben studied him more closely.   
Chiseled features. Angular brow… sharp jaw covered in faint stubble. Easily given to a pretentious expression. Thick eyelashes, longer than any woman’s. His hair fascinated Benjamin the most. Such shiny straight locks, so dark. When free, it softened his face, made him look… more human. 

His chest rose and fell evenly in slumber, the outline of hard muscles peaking from underneath his dampened tunic. A small red scar had formed over his heart, where Ben’s bayonet had nicked him yesterday. Underneath the mark hid a faint bruise, tiny teeth marks, obviously from a lover. Ben rolled his eyes. The Butcher was almost as famous for whoring as he was for murder.

For a brief second Ben imagined Tavington taking a wench, grunting and straining between some harlot’s legs. If he was as intense in bed as he was on the field, Benjamin could understand the man’s preceding reputation. 

But he quickly pushed the thought aside. Tavington’s hours were numbered. 

Ben could not afford to lose his self-control, or he might never get it back. But he would not show Tavington one more ounce of consideration than absolutely necessary. For his late wife’s sake, Ben could not bring himself to be cruel. 

But there would be a reckoning. 

Thunder rolled overhead. His attention had been so focused on the colonel he never noticed the approaching storm. The clouds moved fast, menacing. Rain coming, plenty of it. The thunder drummed again, and a few fat wet drops began to fall to the trees. 

He finished up with the meat and stuck it on the spit. The food should be ready by the time Tavington woke. With any luck, that fever would be gone. He could shove a hot meal into the man, have him on his feet by midday tomorrow. Wash his hands of it. 

He settled back against the wall of the cave, his loaded rifle resting across his lap. Crossing his legs, he shut his eyes for a few moments.

~*~

It was late afternoon when Tavington awoke. The tempting smell of roasting meat made his stomach clench with hunger. His body betrayed his pride, stomach growling to announce his need. Grumbling loudly, like some bloody street urchin.

Martin cracked open an eye. “Should be about done by now.”

Tavington said nothing, determined to appear nonchalant. No matter how much he wanted to beg for nourishment.

Martin walked over to the spit and rotated the greasy meat, drips of fat sizzling in the fire below. Tavington watched, pained, as Martin cut generous hunks off the bone and placed them in the tin cup from earlier. The man held out the cup in Tavington’s direction. 

But Tavington was too weak with hunger to move.

“Not to your liking, Colonel? Wild game offends your English sensibilities?” Martin shrugged, took a huge bite. Tavington almost moaned at the sight of juice dribbling down the man’s strong chin. “Hm. Delicious.”

“Bastard,” Tavington hissed. 

Martin chuckled. “I thought so.” He came closer, brought the cup with him. “Go slow,” he said softly. “If you’ve not eaten in a while, and you’re sick, too much meat can be tough to hold down.”

Tavington noted the fatherly tone to Martin’s voice. He’d never heard such niceties from his own father, and he would have wondered at hearing them now, if all the blood hadn’t rushed from his brain to his stomach. His eyes were glued to the roasted flesh, the fantastic odor making his mouth water. It took every ounce of self-control to eat one strip at a time, to take just one bite at a time. 

He closed his eyes; luxuriated. 

“Not too bad?” Martin asked.

He fought to find his voice. “It’s all right.”

They ate in silence, Tavington trying hard not to bolt his food under Martin’s scrutiny. Between the two of them they all but picked the bones clean.

As the warmth of the meal spread through him, Tavington felt the haze lift from his thoughts. It was raining. Almost evening, with just a bit of foggy gray light scattered about. The general would wonder where he’d gotten to, maybe get around to sending a search party, but he couldn’t depend on that now. He was tired and desperately needed a piss.

He managed to get up, struggling to keep his footing and not topple over Martin on his way toward the cave’s entrance. No sooner had his shadow passed over Martin’s face than a cocked rifle was lodged in his groin.

“Look at you, bold as brass. If you’re well enough to walk, you’re well enough to fight.”

Tavington swallowed, leaning on the cave wall above Martin’s head. The tip of the gun nestled against his cock, making him nervous. “I need… to attend a call of nature. I needed to before you drugged me. I really need to now.”

It pained him to have to admit this, but he held Martin’s gaze insistently. 

“Very well. Go behind that tree.”

Tavington bowed primly, almost losing his balance. “Ever so kind.”

The rain felt good as he stepped out of their cloying little shelter. Cleansing. It felt so, so good to relieve himself. 

He dallied longer than absolutely necessary, letting the heavy pellets of water wash off some of the muck and grime from his shirt, his hair. God, his hair. It was driving him crazy. What he wouldn’t give for a piece of string to get it off his neck. But he’d be damned if he was going to ask Martin for a single thing.

In fact, his mind should be on escape right now. He looked to the left and right, a little too suddenly, and had to steady himself on the tree. He was far from well yet, but at least the fever had let up. 

In truth, almost all trace of the fever had disappeared. No doubt because of that witch’s brew. Insufferable colonial. Damn him if he thought Tavington would be grateful about it. Or the food.

Tavington peered around the tree to find Ben Martin standing just inside the cave, rifle resting casually in his hands. Watching him. He didn’t want to move, then. He felt like a small child, caught doing something naughty. It made him want to squirm a bit, tug at his collar. Something could be so annoyingly patronizing in Martin’s gaze. 

“Don’t you English have the sense to come in out of the rain?” Martin’s voice sounded husky.

God, he felt so dizzy. Perhaps he shouldn’t have eaten quite so much meat. “I just want to clean up a bit.” He titled his head back, stroked his hands down his chest. Everything ached, everything felt dirty and sore. The rain was cool; it cleaned him off. He couldn’t get clean enough… He took a deep breath and sighed. 

Martin grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, as if he were an impudent schoolboy late for class. A startled noise died in the back of Tavington’s throat as the colonial pulled him back into the shelter. He sat there, head spinning. He shivered uncontrollably, from Martin’s touch or the chill rain, he could not tell.

“I didn’t spend all day and night nursing you to health just so you can go and get pneumonia on me.” Martin glared at him.

“Your concern for my welfare is uplifting. But since you’re only waiting around to kill me, I can’t see the offense in taking a bath--”

Martin punched him. “How do you like my logic now?”

They stared at each other, neither wanting to back down. It was bloody ridiculous. 

“You’re mad as a March hare, Benjamin Martin.”

“You’re not exactly one to throw stones.”

Tavington sobered. “No. I’m not inclined to throw stones… anymore.”

“You’re a strange puzzle, Colonel. Just when I think I’ve got you pegged…”

“I do so hate being predictable.” The shivering increased, his whole body beginning to go numb. The coughing started up again. “Perhaps you were right about taking a bath,” he admitted, feeling for all the world like a sack of wet sand. He could have cried, if the impulse hadn’t been beaten out of him years ago. “I just wanted to get clean…”

Martin came over to him, put the back of his hand on Tavington’s forehead. 

“I don’t feel feverish.”

“No, you’re cold now. Too cold. Take off your shirt.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got with me.”

Martin snorted. “It needs to dry. I’m sure your modesty won’t suffer too much.”

He bristled at the colonial’s cheek. “No.”

Blue eyes turned to frost. “Take. Your. Shirt. Off.”

“Martin--”

Tavington staggered a bit as the colonial tore his shirt in half. Ripped it off him.

Enraged, he smacked Martin. But the man didn’t even bat an eye. Just looked at him as if he were a mere child, an annoying insect. Martin wadded up the torn shirt and began rubbing the streaks of dirt off of Tavington’s chest. 

He froze, staring dumbly as Martin bathed him. First dinner and now a bath? Did Martin expect to pamper him to death?

Martin tsked at him. “You can’t stay wet, you’ll get worse. Surely you have some common sense?”

Tavington sat still as a stone while Martin scrubbed away the stains of travel and sickness. 

“Pants off.”

He didn’t have any other clothing. But he was afraid to protest, afraid Martin would rip his trousers, too. He undid the lacings and tried to scoot up enough to wriggle out of the sopping garment, but he was so tired... 

“Here, hold on a minute.” Martin helped Tavington undress, a little roughly, forcing Tavington to put steadying hands on the colonial’s shoulders.   
“I’ve heard it’s a challenge getting the English out of their clothes, but…”

“Yes, well,” Tavington cracked a wry grin. “I’ve heard it’s a challenge getting the French back into theirs.”

Martin chuckled and removed Tavington’s trousers in one sweeping motion. Tavington found himself surprisingly reluctant to let go of the colonial’s broad shoulders. He sensed the strength, the heat and vitality in the other man. Maybe envied it a little. 

Suddenly he was aware that Martin had removed his stockings. He was completely naked. 

He peered up at the colonial, watched as the man raked him with his gaze, lingered on his flat stomach, his heavy prick. Martin glanced away, fiddled with the torn shirt, and proceeded to mop up some of the excess moisture on Tavington’s legs. Interesting.

Tavington had been told his body was handsome, supple. Most thought it no great chore to look at him. Did he not impress the elder Martin at all? Apparently not, for as soon as he was dried off, Martin fetched him a nightshirt from a worn travel sack. Tossed it at him without so much as a glance back.

Tavington hurried to cover himself, suddenly shy about his body. It had never failed to please anyone before… He swallowed. He had not been on intimate terms with such insecurity… until he met Benjamin Martin. He resented it deeply.

Then again, things were not as dire as expected. He was vulnerable, yes; but still alive. “You’re being awfully kind to me. I cannot help but wonder why.”

From the opening of their shelter, Martin watched the storm swell, an odd tension coiled in him. When he finally spoke, his voice was tiny, almost frail. “I cannot help but wonder why you let Gabriel go… That sounded far too kind to be the likes of William Tavington.”

Just how much did Martin guess? The man was no fool, but he couldn’t possibly know what had passed between Tavington and his son only days before. Tavington just couldn’t imagine how that conversation would have played out. Had Gabriel lied and told his father he’d been raped? Had he confessed that he’d willingly slept with the enemy? Had he told his father anything at all? 

Martin was looking at him now, waiting for an answer. He studied his shirt, wondering if it belonged to Gabriel or Benjamin. “He’s a very special young man.” Tavington looked up. “Like his father.”

Martin’s eyes pierced him, stole his breath. “You’re a snake in the grass.”

If Martin wanted to play dirty, Tavington was prepared. “And you’re so pristine, Martin.”

“At least I’m not a butcher of children!” Martin tossed at him.

Tavington scooted forward, finally sensing a crack in the man’s righteous exterior. “Oh, no? Are all those rumors I heard about Fort Wilderness completely unfounded then?”

“You have no idea what happened at Fort Wilderness. No right to even speak of--”

“Oh, so you didn’t murder, rape and pillage out there? You weren’t a killer, stalking out there in the dark? Out there in the wild? They might have been savages, Benjamin, but that last time I checked their blood was still red. All those stories about you cutting off heads and hacking off limbs… just the blathering of fools, then? Are your hands so clean? But don’t bother lying, Martin. We are soldiers, you said so yourself. Men of the field. I’m not so different from you.”

Martin snarled in disgust. “You are nothing like me.”

Ah, the weakness. Tavington had found his target. “We are shadows of each other, you and I. Who’s to say which of us is the better man? I do whatever I have to, to advance. To survive. You did what you had to, for revenge. And you enjoyed it.”

“No.”

“The bloodlust. It thrilled you; admit it!”

“Shut up.”

“You’re a killer, Martin, just like me.”

Martin cracked him across his jaw, and the sting felt good. Familiar. This was how things were supposed to go. He snarled and spat blood at Martin, grinning as it infuriated his captor even more. He wanted Martin to stop pretending to be so good, so nice and honorable. He couldn’t work on such a man. 

“You’re a baby killer, Martin. A violator of women. Part of you always will be. Face it, you’re as damned as I.”

Martin beat him then, the fists landing across his face and body. He rolled with the punches, until the colonial sat squarely on his chest, his handsome face contorted with rage. Strong hands wrapped around his throat, squeezed the air from him.

“You go too far, Tavington.” Martin started choking him in earnest.

“Perhaps,” he rasped. “But you only… prove... me right.”

Just as he thought he would black out, the hands stilled, covering his throat lightly, almost tenderly, like an embrace. A gilded cage.

“I’m nothing like you, Tavington.” Martin’s eyes sparkled with madness. “I’m much, much worse.”

With that, Martin crushed Tavington into a bruising kiss. Teeth scraped at his lips, bit at him, forced him to accept the sensuous rape of his mouth. 

Tavington melted instinctively into the caress, his whole body shifting from one kind of tension to another. He buried one hand into Martin’s hair and returned the kiss, suddenly, inexplicably, relieved.

This was a battle he could fight. A war he knew damned well how to win. 

~*~

Damn the man. So unapologetically wicked. Irresistible. Damn him, right down to his teasing scent. Spice and horses, whiskey and sweat. Tavington. Tavington’s skin smelled of the forest air and rain. His hair was wet, glistening, dripping onto Ben’s fingers, onto the borrowed shirt. Tavington’s frame shivered, shuddered, pressed into his kiss with a surprising need. 

He surrendered too quickly; Ben didn’t trust it.

It made Ben want to rip that shirt open again and bloody and rape his body, give Tavington what he so richly deserved. He sucked at the man’s lips, biting down hard, Tavington’s appreciative moan torqueing him up another notch. Boldly, vindictively, he crushed the weakened man beneath his full weight, pressing Tavington completely to the floor as he deepened the kiss. 

Tavington’s fingers curled into his hair, lightly grazed his scalp, driving him on further. He ravaged the colonel’s mouth, fucked him with his tongue, made him whimper while demanding further acquiescence. He wanted surrender, not the pretense of it.

All too soon he had to break for air. Gray eyes stared up at him, their pupils dilated with fear and lust. Tavington panted slightly, his lower lip bleeding just a tad. He looked like utter sin, a debauched, arching, writhing sexual creature. All from just one kiss. 

“You look like Lucifer himself.”

Tavington grinned. “You would know. Feel like consorting with the devil?”

Ben swallowed thickly. Stared openly as the man spread his legs in unabashed invitation. Tavington raised his shirt to the tops of his corded, muscular thighs, displaying himself like a wanton whore. An incubus from hell. Ben watched as Tavington slid a hand down his shivering body, lightly groping his own cock, the movement so slow, intimate, sure. Too sure. Confidence gleamed in Tavington’s steel-gray eyes.

“Lecher,” Ben hissed. 

Tavington’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “I know you now, Ben Martin. I recognize myself in you.”

Ben pulled away a bit, wary of the seduction. “You think so?”

The colonel nodded. “You have no intentions of seeing me well. You don’t really want a duel. Not with swords or pistols, anyway. You brought me here to fuck me. And I can’t blame you. It’s exactly what I would have done, if I had captured you first.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” With effort, Tavington hooked an arm around Ben’s neck and pulled himself up close, so dangerously close to his face, his vulnerable mouth. “Prove it.”  
Tavington’s lips traced up Ben’s throat in a searing trail of pure seduction. That skilled tongue found entrance into Ben’s mouth, coaxed a moan from him as it caressed and mapped with silky smooth expertise. 

Ben fought his traitorous body, beat down the desire to give rut to his revenge. He broke away. “You think you’re so irresistible, Tavington. You think this is some sort of game. But I play for keeps.”

“Good. So do I.”

Another kiss, lazy, drawn out, shifting like molasses. Tavington flicked his tongue over Ben’s teeth, massaged Ben’s tongue sensually, driving him insane. He let the man take some control, let Tavington’s hands wander from his hair to his shoulders, digging those sharp talons in deep. Blood pooled in his groin, making him unbearably stiff.

Stubble grazed at Ben’s chin, scratched at him while Tavington scoured his mouth. He lowered them both to the ground, shocked when Tavington hooked a leg around his waist and moaned. He pulled back slightly, cock aching.

“Whatever you’re up to, it won’t work,” he informed Tavington. 

A seductive smile was his only response.

“Wipe that smile off your face.”

Ruby lips spread wide, the smile deepening to reveal pearl-white teeth. 

Ben grabbed the man’s chin, forced him to tilt his head back, exposing that corded throat. He sucked on Tavington then, fed off him. “I hate you,” he whispered.

“You say the sweetest things, lover,” Tavington whispered back, arching up. His strong hands slid down Ben’s back, lightly teasing, until they rested on the swell of his buttocks. “I hate you, too.”

Tavington squeezed him, making him hot with need. If Tavington’s hands had stayed on his ass, Ben would have come right then. But Tavington was greedy; his hands were everywhere. On his back, his sides, in his hair. Brushing over his abdomen. Covering his prick.

The colonel tormented him with long, skillful fingers, wrapping them around his throbbing cock. Rubbing him through his clothes with enough pressure to make him sweat. Ben almost didn’t notice when Tavington turned them over, his own slighter weight resting on Ben’s chest.

They shared long soul-scouring kisses, perverse in their tenderness. 

With every press of lips, Ben’s desire to mar, to own, to break Tavington increased. The savage berserker in him gained dangerous sway with each passing minute.   
He dug his nails into Tavington’s back, delighting in the surprised groan. He let his own hands wander, let them map and memorize the sculpted mountains of the man’s muscles, the valleys of his heat. He cupped Tavington’s substantial cock, palmed it in a bruising rhythm. Delighted as the colonel shivered and whimpered atop him. 

He wound the inky strands of Tavington’s hair around his fingers and pulled the man flush across his body, rolling them both so that he was back on top. Moving his other hand out of the way, Ben settled in the cradle of Tavington’s hips and rocked them both towards pleasure.

Tavington’s labored breath was music to Ben’s ears. He listened, growing harder, as Tavington panted and strained. He could feel the fever of the other man, the want warring with the need to be in control. 

Several times Tavington tried to shift their weight, attempting to gain the upper position. Each time, Ben held him down using superior strength. Tavington switched tactics, distracting him with maddening kisses, feather-light touches. Ben wondered at the man’s sudden intensity as Tavington fisted his clothing, helped him pull his shirt over his head. Those talons were back in him again, raking nasty little trails across his chest. Ben returned the favor and watched as Tavington’s eyes grew dark with lust. 

“Take your pants off,” Tavington commanded, every bit the colonel. 

“Ask nicely.”

Gray eyes glittered with frustration. “Pretty please, take your pants off.”

Ben rose slightly, thrust his pelvis at Tavington. “You take them off.”

With an impatient sigh, Tavington reached for his trousers. 

“With your teeth.”

A beat. When Tavington looked up at him again, the danger and desire in his eyes flashed like lightning. Ben’s breath caught as he watched Tavington inch forward, place his hands on either side of Ben’s hips and lick at Ben’s length through his trousers. He keened as Tavington whipped him with his tongue then used his teeth to undo the lacings. Every time the colonel’s lips would brush his cock, he would leave a kiss there, his moist breath making Ben shudder. 

Ben held Tavington’s head still and ground his clothed-encased cock against the man’s flushed cheek. Tavington’s hands were back on his ass, encouraging. Too soon, too soon.

He pulled away, pushed his pants down--- and in a heartbeat Tavington’s mouth was on him, surrounding him with slick heat. Ben cried out as the colonel suckled him, sliding his cock as far down as he could manage. He shivered and shifted and groaned as Tavington worked him. 

Finally he had to push the man’s face away. “Lie down.”

Tavington blinked. “No. You lie down.”

“Don’t be contrary now,” Ben warned. “I’m in no mood to play fair.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tavington purred. “But if you think I’m the one who’s going to get fucked here, you’re mistaken.”

Ben arched an eyebrow. Outside, thunder clapped. 

They went at each other like wild things, neither willing to surrender an inch of ground. Teeth, tongues, fists warred. Nails drew blood. Ben managed to grab a fist full of Tavington’s hair, forced him to his hands and knees. He covered Tavington with his body, pressed close to the wanton frame. Bit down on the man’s neck, thrilled at the pained howl that tumbled forth as Ben entered him from behind.

For long moments nothing could be heard but thunder. Thunder and strained breaths filled the night, the dark. Ben snapped his hips forward, reveling in Tavington’s enveloping heat. Tavington fit him like a tight glove. 

Ben looked down, noted the colonel’s rigid body, braced back. Heard the gulping, hiccupping gasps for air. Looked down to see the blood he tore from Tavington.   
He stopped, stunned. The colonel was near panic.

Tavington shook like a leaf when Ben pulled out, continued to shake as Ben turned him over and laid him gently on the floor. The colonel’s eyes were glazed over in fear, his mouth pulled tight in pain. Every once in a while, the man murmured something. 

Ben leaned forward, struggling to make it out. He traced the hint of a word on Tavington’s breath.

“Father, no… Father...”

Realization struck suddenly and a piece of Benjamin’s heart cracked. Froze. Ached for Tavington. He didn’t want to ache for Tavington, didn’t want to feel pity. But he was a father himself. He could not imagine the horrors Tavington must have faced as a boy. What kind of man had the elder Tavington been? What sick attentions had he forced Tavington to suffer? What would such trauma do to a child? Was it any wonder what kind of a man Tavington had become?

He looked down at Tavington’s nude body, rocking softly, closing in on itself, so vulnerable. Lost in dark memories. He tried to summon up rage for the man. Tried to remember his righteous fury. But they were only human after all. Neither of them had been without sin, without stain. Both had been horribly sinned against. How could he judge Tavington now?

He brushed the raven black hair out of Tavington’s eyes, pulled him into a tight embrace. “Colonel,” he called softly. But that sounded so impersonal. “William.”  
Tavington whimpered, folding deeper into Ben’s arms.

“William, it’s all right now. It’s all right.”

Ben let Tavington rest in the embrace for a moment, running comforting hands along his spine. Eventually Tavington relaxed, the glaze vanishing from his eyes. Ben watched him carefully, looking for further signs of distress.

Slowly, cautiously, Tavington reached out for him, touched him. Ran his hands over Ben’s torso, his arms.

Ben removed those questing hands, not wanting to push Tavington any further. But the man’s expression looked pained. Afraid. Rejected. 

He kissed Tavington’s forehead, his cheek, his mouth. He tried to keep it light, chaste, but Tavington wanted more. Pushed at him, bucked and whimpered and mewled. 

Ben was still hard, so achingly hard. Tormented. Again, he found himself at crossroads.

“William--”

“What are you waiting for?”

“You… you--”

“I what?”

Martin frowned. Clearly Tavington had no clue what had happened. No memory that he had spoken aloud.

“Just fuck me, Martin. We both want it.” Tavington’s voice was flat, anxious.

“I’m not entirely convinced of that.”

“Let me help you.” Tavington reached up then, pulled him down into a needy kiss. Trembling arms wrapped around Ben’s shoulders, fingers twined in his hair. Their bodies melded together, this time gentle, sweet. Ben pressed the corners of his mouth to Tavington’s lips, let the man set their pace. 

Soon the colonel’s hips began rocking forward, grinding their swollen cocks together. Ben moaned, caressed Tavington’s cheek to show his appreciation. The man’s ardor swiftly mounted and before long, Tavington planted his heels on the ground and raised up to mash their hips together. Breaths mingled, their lips never more than an inch apart.

Ben held Tavington close, then, and rolled them so that Tavington straddled his waist. He licked his palm, making sure that he had Tavington’s complete attention. Then he fisted the man’s cock, using a slow, steady rhythm. The colonel’s head fell back, a throaty purr escaping him as the swell of his ass rubbed against Ben’s own stiff cock.

Ben was content with this; this would be enough. But Tavington had other ideas. The colonel reached behind him and took Ben’s length in hand, easing himself down on the weeping prick an inch at a time. Ben watched as Tavington fought to control his breathing, struggled not to wince. He stroked the man’s face again.  
“So beautiful,” he murmured.

Tavington’s features softened, a shy smile threatening to break free. 

For long moments the men simply stared at each other, Ben letting Tavington get used to his size. Thunder rolled, lightning lit up the sky every once and a while. Ben smoothed his hands down Tavington’s sides, calming him, combating the shivers.

Eventually Tavington began to move, slowly at first, then with greater enthusiasm. It was all Ben could do to keep himself in check, the sight of that gorgeous, sinful man finding his pleasure... riding Ben toward release. He bit his lip and let Tavington have his way for as long as he could, the dam in him finally breaking as Tavington whispered, “Oh God, fuck me!” 

He gripped the colonel’s hips, forced him down sharply. Lifted him up and pulled him roughly down again. And again. And again. 

Tavington muttered a curse, seeming to enjoy the pain now. Ben was too far gone to do much about it either way. He planted his feet and snapped his hips up, bucking wildly, ecstatic in the delicious, frantic pulse of Tavington’s clenching heat. Tavington moaned and whimpered his pleasure, covering Ben’s hand with his own as they jerked his prick in time with Ben’s thrusts. 

So good. Devastatingly good. 

Ben sat up just to be close to Tavington now, to let those little noises spill into his own mouth as he kissed him over and over again. They were both galloping towards the breaking point, the pleasure becoming truly painful now. 

Tavington broke the kiss first, his head snapping back with a scream, come erupting onto Ben’s chest and neck. Ben was mere seconds behind, lifting them both off the ground with the force of his thrusts, rutting deep, spilling his hot seed into Tavington with a guttural cry.

Tavington collapsed. Ben clutched the man to his chest, listening to the blood pound in his ears, feeling Tavington’s own heart beat through the cage of his ribs. The man’s pulse fluttered wildly, but his breathing was even. Must have passed out in the wake of their pleasure. Ben himself was almost undone.

For long moments he just lay there, holding his enemy close to his breast, running his fingers through silky strands of dark, wet hair. The lull of gentle rain eventually pushed him into sleep.

~*~

The storm had broken, and the dawn rose, magnificent. Reds and gold, soft pinks. Tavington woke slowly, surprised to find himself entangled gently in Martin’s arms. He felt much better. The man’s fingers were in his hair, one hand lazily brushed the small of his back. Strangely comforting, that.

“I hurt you.”

It was not a question.

Tavington sighed heavily. “I’ve had worse.”

“I could tell.”

He shot a glare at Martin. “What do you mean, you could tell?”

Martin avoided his gaze. “Last night, you called out… For your father.”

So that was why Martin had been so considerate and fucked him like a woman. Rage and shame consumed him. He almost couldn’t see he was so livid. “Is that so?” Ice, he felt ice in his veins.

“I’m sorry.”

He scrambled up, tugged on his pants with quick, jerky movements. “You’re sorry,” he spit out. “Benjamin Martin is bloody sorry for me.”

Martin sat up, his long brown hair falling over his shoulder. How did the Martin men manage to look like such fallen angels? Blue eyes studied him, and their gaze would have been stunning, if not for the pity. 

The colonial struggled for a moment, searching for words. “I don’t know what to say. Last night… you… I… I had no right--”

“Do you think you know me now, Benjamin?” Tavington taunted, full of spite. “You think you’ve… how did you put it… got me pegged? Save your excuses. You fucked me last night. It hurt. A small matter. Guess what? I enjoyed it. An even smaller matter. Nothing to concern yourself with. Rape is an old hat for us both, right?”  
Great satisfaction came from watching Martin wince. 

“After all, you may have had my ass last night, but nothing could equal the satisfaction of my having Gabriel’s.”

Ha. Martin’s jaw dropped. Hung open like a forgotten door. Good. 

“You son of a bitch. You raped Gabriel---”

“No, no, Martin. You go to him, you ask him. Was it rape? I could hardly call it forced, what with him begging me so--”

“Liar!”

“On occasion, Ben, but not today. Understand me, Martin. He begged me. So I guess we can both boast about our powers of persuasion, hm?”

Martin stood slowly, put on his clothes without glancing in Tavington’s direction. He walked over to the travel bag, still refusing to look at him, and pulled out two pistols. He lobbed one at Tavington’s head and walked out of the cave. Took twenty paces.

Tavington checked the gun, found it loaded, and walked outside with a calm that belied his frothing temper. “Time for that duel, then?”

Martin said nothing, just stood there, in position. Tavington squinted in the sun, marked the distance. 

“Gabriel is going to be married, Tavington.”

Something in him broke. So Martin had finally found a true weakness in him… “What?”

“Gabriel. Engaged. To a lovely girl; Anne. They’re going to be married. I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to see to my son, my family. This war will end soon, Tavington, and the world will forget all about you.”

He was too shaken to think of a response. He didn’t have time for one, as Martin raised his pistol and took aim.

“Colonel Tavington! Colonel Tavington! We found you!” 

In the distance he could see a small band of redcoats; Cornwallis’ search party finally catching up. Just foot soldiers, not a single mount among them, but closing in fast.

Tavington had only a split second to duck before Martin’s bullet whizzed by his head. He rolled, eyes searching for the rebel, training his pistol on Martin’s fleeing form. He fired just as Martin took cover behind a tree.

“Damn!” he bellowed, watching helplessly as Martin stole his horse. He turned to see the foot soldiers finally break upon the scene. “Don’t just stand there, you fools! Fire! Shoot him down!”

Rifles were primed and aimed, firing at various intervals as Martin mounted, turned and galloped away. Unscathed. Out of sight.

A young private crossed over to him. “Sir, are you all right? Should we make to follow him?”

Martin was on horseback. They were on foot. Tavington was still weak and sore from sickness, from sex. He wanted nothing more than to stalk after Martin and flay him alive. But it would do no good following him now. Martin was in his home territory, with every advantage. 

“Sir? I said, should we--”

Tavington slapped the youth to the ground and proceeded to beat him until his energy was spent. “You just lost the General his Ghost, Private.” He glared at the other grunts. “Took you bloody long enough to get here, and then like this! He was within my grasp!”

The men gathered around their private, glancing at him with nervous eyes, like sheep. He must look positively unhinged. Dirty. Unshaved. Half naked. Claw marks all over his chest. Hands empty, the Ghost gone away. Nothing left of his dignity. Nothing left but his sword, resting against the tree, mocking him. 

Mocking him.

It was all Martin’s fault. Everything. The blame lay at Martin’s door.

And he would pay dearly.

So, Gabriel was not his? He would marry some colonial wench, breed a litter of whelps, leaving Tavington all alone, with absolutely nothing. Alone and vulnerable. Forever lost with fragile memories.

It was no to be borne. 

Tavington would hunt, without pause, until he found the village that housed this Anne bitch. Root her out. Kill them all. That should bring the boy back to him. And then he would kill him, by any means necessary. He would smile while the boy choked on his last traitorous, lying breath. 

Before this war was over, Martin was going to lose another son.

If he had to, he would stalk Benjamin Martin’s children down, one by one, until his seed was wiped from the earth. He would take Martin’s soul and twist it black and blue, break him until there was nothing left.

A cool, frigid calm crept back into him.

Martin would suffer until there was nothing left but rage and emptiness. 

And then finally, at some inn or pasture or wood or field, they would meet again. And Tavington would show Martin who was the better man.

~*~ 

END


End file.
